The Case of the Baker Street Irregular
by Arctic Squirrel
Summary: Andrew Wallace lived in Yorkshire with his aunt and father. He is taken to London after his Aunt's death, and.... I don't want to give away the story! But it's a good plot, I promise!
1. Default Chapter

Hello All! Arctic Squirrel here! I thought I would try something a little different to  
  
stimulate the brain a little bit. Sherlock Holmes is only a secondary character in this fic, *dodges  
  
rotten vegetables and the oh so necessary rubber chicken* and he will not appear until the 4th or  
  
5th chapter, if my calculations are correct. I realized something while I was reading through all of  
  
the illustrious fan fics. Not one of them (that I have read, so no offense to those who have  
  
already thought of this) has seen Sherlock through the eyes of a child. :) I will be updating  
  
religiously every one to two weeks. Please R&R. I always value constructive criticism.   
  
Disclaimer: If you think I created Sherlock Holmes, I am flattered, but no, Sir Arthur Conan  
  
Doyle wrote the Sherlock Holmes Series.......  
  
And if you didn't know that, you are a sorry, sorry soul.  
  
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The Case of the Baker Street Irregular  
  
  
  
Chapter One  
  
  
  
The Funeral  
  
All around the towering stone monument grass and clay were strewn. The nobility of  
  
Yorkshire stood solemnly around the gaping, unnatural hole in the earth, kicking the uprooted  
  
earth out from under their dainty Victorian shoes. It had rained that day, as it so often did on the  
  
moors. Their heels sunk into the soft earth, and the ladies skirts dragging through the mud. Their  
  
umbrellas tapped restlessly against theirs thighs as the pastor's sermon droned on and on.  
  
  
  
"Was it really necessary for her to have the ceremony all the way out here?" asked a  
  
young lady in a flamboyant bonnet of black lace, "Why not be buried in a churchyard like a  
  
decent Christian?"  
  
  
  
A middle-aged aristocratic woman let out a cynical laugh, "If Lady Allen was anything  
  
like herself when she made her burial requests, I am certain she did it out of spite."  
  
  
  
The young lady chuckled secretively, "I'd heard she was not well liked. Of course I was  
  
only about ten the last time I saw her. It was the service when she told off poor Pastor Jones.   
  
She was ranting and raving so! I was quite frightened of her."  
  
  
  
"I daresay the preacher was quite as frightened as you were, if not more so," said the elder  
  
woman in a hushed voice, "He left for a new parish the next week. Though there was really no  
  
need; she never came back to church after that. Godless woman, she was."  
  
  
  
"Shh!" hissed a tall man in a silk hat next to them. The two women turned their attention  
  
huffily back to the pastor who was finishing his sermon.  
  
  
  
"To you, O Father, we deliver our dearly departed Lady Agatha Allen. Take her into your  
  
kingdom of Heaven, O Lord. In Christ's name we pray-"  
  
  
  
"Amen," chorused the circle of people around the grave. All attention now turned  
  
towards a man in a naval uniform standing by the casket, at least a head above everyone else.   
  
Captain Wallace touched a hand over his fair military mustache and brushed away some stray  
  
blonde hairs that had escaped from under his cap. His expression was grave, if not sorrowful, as  
  
he stepped up to the casket. He motioned for the small thin boy by his side to do the same, he  
  
did not move. He brushed away his dark brown hair which the moor's wind kept blowing into  
  
his face. Andrew didn't want to look at her in that horrible wooden box even though he knew it  
  
was expected of him. His father, the Captain, had drilled him on his duties the night before: he  
  
was to shut the coffin lid, as was customary for the next of kin. He was then to throw the first  
  
handful of dirt onto the coffin when it was lowered into the grave. It had all seemed quite simple  
  
the night before, but now, faced with situation, he found that his legs wouldn't carry him.   
  
  
  
"Move, boy," Captain Wallace growled under his breath.   
  
  
  
Before he could stop himself or even think about what he was doing, Andrew bolted. He  
  
was running as fast as he could for home, the Allen Manor. He seemed to fairly fly over the wet  
  
gorse, heather, and broom, barely touching the ground as he ran. Nothing could make him go  
  
back to that place. Nothing. He couldn't watch them bury his aunt; put her in a hole in the earth  
  
where she was to reside for the rest of eternity. That wasn't where she belonged. She belonged  
  
back in her bed at the manor where she had always been. She needed to be there when he ran in  
  
so she could laugh at his stories as she always had when his father, the Captain, forced him to go  
  
to social gatherings. She needed to be there to instruct him, to berate him at times, to be kind to  
  
him at others, and to call him Toad. Toad had been her pet name for him since he was four. It  
  
was short for "Toadstool" because of the horrible toff haircut his father made him get which  
  
made his head look like a mushroom. She shortened it to simply "Toad" in later years, which  
  
infuriated his father to no end.  
  
  
  
Andrew tripped and fell over a small boulder, hidden by the tall purple grass. He landed  
  
face-first in the mud. His nice, crisp, new clothes, bought specifically for the occasion of the  
  
funeral, were now covered from head to toe in moor mud. Andrew didn't care; he wanted  
  
nothing to do with those clothes, those people, or that ceremony that were burying the only  
  
person in the world that had ever cared for him. Certainly Aunt Agatha had been harsh, even  
  
brutal at times with her sharp words and wit, but she loved him as much as a mother ever loved a  
  
son, and had been proud of him.  
  
  
  
Andrew heaved himself off of the ground. He needed find a place to hide, and quick.   
  
The Captain was going to give him the scolding of a life-time when he got back, anyway. If  
  
funeral procession saw him covered from head to toe in mud and grass Andrew doubted whether  
  
he would escape a confrontation with his father alive.  
  
  
  
Captain Wallace had always been very concerned about the way his family appeared to  
  
the neighbors. He was always drilling Andrew on manners, customs, and good behavior. To  
  
most people in the countryside of Yorkshire, Andrew was as perfect a young gentleman as a  
  
parent could hope for. Andrew's only vice was that he was simply unlucky at social events. He  
  
always seemed to manage to botch his public appearances somehow. It wasn't for lack of trying;  
  
he wanted nothing in the world more than to make his father proud. He just always seemed to  
  
get so nervous in front of large groups of people. Two weeks before just such a disaster  
  
happened when he accidentally spilled wine on a Duchess. Andrew didn't know her name. Her  
  
rank and the look on his father's was enough to tell him that his accident was nothing short of a  
  
natural disaster. Not knowing what else to do, he had run upstairs to the sanctuary of his Aunt  
  
Agatha's room. She was always there waiting for him with a handkerchief and a pot of tea at the  
  
ready.   
  
  
  
"Tell me what happened this time," she had said. Andrew related his tale of social terror,  
  
and, as during most of his tales, his Aunt Agatha had laughed until she cried. This only made the  
  
tears flow more freely from Andrew's eyes.  
  
  
  
"Oh, buck up boy!" she had said stoutly, "I wasn't laughing at you, I was laughing at  
  
them. Oh, the looks that must have been on their faces! You are the only joy this sick woman  
  
has, Andrew. Now you listen to me, don't you worry about what those people think. They have  
  
no life in them at all. They are like stale bread with no butter."  
  
  
  
"I-I wasn't worried about th-them," Andrew had sobbed, "I... he... father said that-"  
  
  
  
Agatha's face had darkened, "Don't you listen to a word that man says."  
  
  
  
"He said I could never be a gentleman. He said I was too clumsy and stupid and..."  
  
  
  
"Now you listen to me," Agatha had said, pulling to poor sobbing boy towards her, "You  
  
are more of a gentleman at the age of ten than the Captain will ever be." And, in a rare display of  
  
affection, she grasped him in a strong embrace.   
  
  
  
There had been a knock at the door. Andrew had shuddered. He'd had no wish to  
  
confront his father or to go back down to the party.   
  
  
  
"What do you want?" Agatha had screeched, "Have you no respect for a dying old  
  
woman? Go and leave me to live out the remainder of my lonely life."  
  
  
  
Andrew had cover his mouth to stifle a laugh. Agatha always put on a show when she  
  
thought one of the neighbors was coming to call. She called it "Playing Mrs. Bennet." Andrew  
  
never understood what she had meant, nor did he know who Mrs. Bennet was. He was fairly  
  
sure, however, that Mrs. Bennet was a very disagreeable woman suffering from every ailment  
  
known to mankind.   
  
  
  
The door opened and the Captain stood rigidly in the doorway. His height and broad  
  
shoulder took up much of the doorframe. His gaze fell upon the tear-streaked Andrew and his  
  
face fell in disgust. Andrew became very interested in his hands.  
  
  
  
"Oh," Agatha had said, "It's you. Well, I must say Captain, you've denied Andrew and  
  
me of a treat. It has been at least a month since I confirmed my senility to the public and I was  
  
hoping to reinstate my image. So, idiot, what do you want?"  
  
  
  
Andrew had marveled at her. Nobody else spoke to Captain Wallace in such an insulting  
  
way. The rest of the household was terribly afraid of his temper, but Agatha had always treated  
  
the Captain as though he were a fly that needed swatting.  
  
  
  
"Agatha, I have come with no ill will towards you, nor do I wish to engage in conflict  
  
over such a small triviality as this," he had said stiffly, "I have only come for Andrew. Our  
  
guests are enquiring over the absence of their host. It is most unfitting for a host to leave in the  
  
midst of a party."  
  
  
  
"Excellent point!" Agatha had cried, slapping her knee in mock agreement, "So why are  
  
you up here?"  
  
  
  
"Don't play daft, Agatha, I know your game. You know very well I meant Andrew. The  
  
Duchess has recovered from the mishap nicely and all is well again."  
  
  
  
"Oh yes," Agatha had said, "Toad and I were just discussing..."  
  
  
  
"I will not have my son referred to as an amphibian," his father had hissed, "He is of  
  
noble blood!"  
  
  
  
"Yes," said Agatha softly, "My noble blood. Therefore I shall call him by any pet name I  
  
choose."  
  
  
  
"He has already embarrassed me once tonight and I shall not have my family name  
  
dishonored further!" Captain Wallace had cried.  
  
  
  
"Oh?" Agatha had whispered in a cryptic, menacing whisper, "Worried about honor?   
  
You? What need have you to be concerned about honor? You're record is spotless... isn't it?"  
  
  
  
The captain glared daggers at her and looked as if he would have dearly loved to throttle  
  
the invalid woman. Andrew knew if the captain had been looking at him like that, he would be  
  
going as fast as he could in the opposite direction.  
  
  
  
"Andrew stays with me and you will not discuss the matter further with him. Is that  
  
clear?" asked Agatha. The Captain gave her a stubborn nod. "Well," she continued, "I suggest  
  
you return to the asylum escapees that are currently residing in my ballroom."  
  
  
  
The Captain cast one last malicious look at Lady Agatha and shut the door quietly behind  
  
him.  
  
  
  
Later on that night, when Andrew was feeling better, Agatha had tried to take his mind of  
  
the events of the evening by advising him in the art of poker.   
  
  
  
"Don't let them read your face, Toad. That's the key. If they can read your face, they can  
  
read your mind. If that happens, you're done for."  
  
  
  
He'd practiced his poker-face until Agatha was satisfied, and they began to play. Their  
  
game had soon been joined by Drake, the captain's man-servant, and Mrs. Bingley, Andrew's  
  
nurse-maid. They'd played for matches, since Mrs. Bingley declared that playing for money  
  
came "straight from the devil." Agatha had called her a "Puritan spoil-sport," but Mrs. Bingley  
  
had stood firm on her principles and Agatha had been forced to give in.  
  
  
  
Agatha had warned them to go easy on Andrew, much to his consternation, but soon  
  
found out that such a warning was not necessary.  
  
  
  
"I say!" Drake had cried after Andrew's third straight that evening, "You're the finest  
  
poker player in Yorkshire, Master Andrew!"  
  
  
  
"And look at that face!" Agatha had pointed out with pride, "You may as well be playing  
  
with a stone slab! I've never seen anyone lie with such a straight face! You should run for  
  
parliament, Andrew."  
  
  
  
The fun had ended when Mrs. Bingley threw herself into hysterics over the late hour.   
  
Andrew had reluctantly abandoned his royal flush ("Amazing!" Drake had cried) and had  
  
allowed himself to be bustled out of the room by the flustered nurse-maid.  
  
  
  
Later that night he had been awakened by shouting coming from his Aunt Agatha's room.   
  
He knew it was his father she was shouting at. They often had these rows, but Andrew only ever  
  
caught the ends of the arguments. Andrew always just assumed that their arguments were over  
  
the same topic, because they always ended the same way.  
  
  
  
"What my niece ever saw in a rascal like you I shall never know!" Agatha had shouted,  
  
"And how dare you make demands when I've let you stay here for all these years?"  
  
  
  
"How dare you refuse them?" the Captain had shouted back, "After all I've done..."  
  
  
  
"After all you've done? Oh yes, you've done plenty, my dear Captain Wallace. If at any point in  
  
time I should wish to thank you for all you've done for my family you will know by the absence  
  
of your genitalia!"  
  
  
  
"BE QUIET, you senile old woman! Do not speak of what you cannot understand!"  
  
  
  
"I may be old and I may be confined to this bed day and night, but remember this: it is my  
  
bed, sir, my house, and my nephew. You mark my words now; it shall all go to him."  
  
  
  
"Don't be a fool, woman!" the Captain had cried hysterically, "You don't understand the  
  
danger in which you place me if you refuse to agree!"  
  
  
  
"Yes I do, Captain, but I am far more concerned about Andrew's welfare than your  
  
mortality!" Agatha had shrieked back.  
  
  
  
"THEN I SHALL EXPOSE HER!" the Captain had finally shouted at the top of his lungs.   
  
And that was where the arguments had always ended. No more words followed. Only the sound  
  
of creaking hinges and retreating footsteps.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
Andrew finally reached the house, tear-streaked and covered in mud. He looked at the  
  
manor for a moment, then darted around it. The funeral procession would be arriving there soon  
  
and he didn't want to be anywhere near them. Spotting the carriage house, he ran inside and  
  
bolted the door shut. Nobody would ever look for him here. No one ever came in but the stable  
  
boy to hook up the horses, and he was sure that no one would be using the carriage today. He  
  
climbed into the back seat, curled up in an old horse-blanket, and, exhausted, fell into a deep,  
  
fitful sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2: Bedclothes and Boarding

Well here I am with chapter number two. I have survived Halloween, much to the dismay of Oprah's psychic, and I went as Mary Poppins, and it was great. Thus, why it took me so long to update. Now to reply to my first reviews!  
  
Marylinisca - Yes, I borrowed some names from the brilliant Jane Austen. ( I'm actually her descendent! I had no idea until last week when my mom told me. Will wonders never cease?  
  
Nako-Chan - My, my, how the tables have turned! Hehe! Well, one of my favorite authors is reviewing my fic! Wow! Thank you for the review, it was VERY complimentary, especially since you didn't care if Sherlock was in it. Wow. I'm VERY flattered! When are you going to continue with that Sherlock/ Phantom story? I was quite in to it.  
  
March Hare - You are indeed pulling a Watson. ( But to get so much praise from my favorite author is praise indeed! Those were some of the best compliments I've ever had! And now I will abuse this right of replying to bother you about another chapter for Mayhem in Manhattan. I am evil, yes. Oh, and I loved your letter to the editor, it was adorable.  
  
And I promise that this is the last slow chapter for a while. Chapter three's gonna start shakin' things up a little bit.. Yo.  
  
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The Case of the Baker Street Irregular  
  
Chapter 2: Bedclothes and Boarding  
  
The next morning Andrew awoke to find himself in his own bedroom, smothered in warm sheets and blankets. There was no trace of the previous day's mud, and his bedclothes were as crisp and clean as if they had just come from the laundry. To his great surprise his entire room was pristine. The few toys he was allowed had been scooped up into his toy chest and his usual mess of half-read books were back in their appropriate places on the shelf.  
  
Andrew had never been allowed to play with toys much. His father had always associated them with weakness, declaring that "The young soldiers of her Majesty's empire must be built to lead, not to play!" The only time Andrew ever remembered having any toys other than tin soldiers and wooden battle ships was when his mother was still alive. He remembered very little about his mother; the little he did know had come from vague and abrupt stories from his Aunt Agatha. From her stories he had been able to create an image of her; the only image he had. His father had, from the even rarer stories Mrs. Bingley told him, taken every photograph and painting of her and thrown them into the fire. The two had never gotten along, but Mrs. Bingley believed that her death had affected the Captain deeply.  
  
The story of his mother's death was one of the only stories Andrew knew well because his father had spoken of it too, but only once. Andrew, being of a curious young age at the time, had asked his father where his mother was.  
  
"I shall tell you, boy, so be sure you are prepared to listen for I shall tell you only once." Andrew, being five at the time and therefore absolutely sure of everything, nodded. "Very well, I shall be brief, for hers was a brief and foolish death," the Captain had said, rolling a cigarette with his strong, thin fingers and looking the miniature Andrew dead in the eye, "Elizabeth was fond of the sea, as am I. We would go out on a rowboat every day on the sea. Those were the better days, Andrew. There is no need to hide from you that we soon fell out of favor with each other. You were too young at the time to notice. Anyway, your mother still loved going out on that damned, decrepit rowboat every day, only she brought friends and relatives with her. Not me," the Captain's eyes slowly left Andrew's and, after a time, reached the glowing fireplace of his study, "That was her downfall, Andrew; her Waterloo. Against my advice - and me being a Sea Captain of the Royal Navy you'd think she would have listened to me - she went out to sea with a cousin of hers on that damned boat on a day when the weather was sure to turn treacherous. Surely enough it did. Both Elizabeth and her cousin were drowned."  
  
Captain Wallace had taken the last puff of his cigarette, then, and thrown it into the fire. Andrew had still been staring at him, tears running down his cheeks. His father had turned away in disgust, "Who taught you to cry at every sad thing you heard, boy? In my opinion the world is bettered by the disappearance of idiots such as your mother who go out on leaky boats in stormy weather."  
  
"Was she pretty?" Andrew had asked.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Was she pretty, father?"  
  
"Call me Captain, boy."  
  
"Captain. was she pretty?" Captain Wallace had peered stonily at his small son for a moment.  
  
"The most gorgeous in the Empire, son," he had replied. Andrew had grinned, "Do you really think I would marry anyone who wasn't?" The grin had faded, but held.  
  
Andrew had never heard the Captain speak of his mother since. His Aunt Agatha's stories, though sporadic, had been more informative. All he had ever really gotten out of her was that his mother had had freckles just like his, and dark hair, just like his.  
  
"Your mother had the patience and kindness of a saint," his Aunt had said, "Nobody else could have tolerated your father for that long."  
  
And that was all the kind of information he could get out of her. Every time he had persisted, she had stopped abruptly and said, "Don't ask foolish questions. Now get me a gin and tonic, Toad."  
  
Due to the number of similar conversations, Andrew had become an expert at mixing various alcoholic beverages over the years.  
  
* *  
*  
  
Andrew schlumped out of bed and over to his wardrobe, where he was met with a slight inconvenience.  
  
"Drake!" he called.  
  
His clothes were completely missing. There wasn't even a sock left! And why wasn't Drake answering?  
  
"Drake!" he called again, "Mrs. Bingley?" No reply. Where could they possibly be? They had always come when he'd called them before, however infrequently. Come to think of it, the house did seem oddly still. There was usually someone around.  
  
The sharp reality of his Aunt's death cut him like a cold blade. She'd always had the servant's in her room. The servants had been within calling distance because they had always been talking care of her. Now, he supposed, there was no reason for any of the servants to be on the third floor at all.  
  
Andrew tip-toed down the freezing cold corridor in his nightclothes. Even though the other servants were all downstairs, Mrs. Bingley was his nurse- maid. Her only job was to take care of him, so when on earth was she?  
  
"Mrs. Bingley!" Andrew called again loudly. His echo was his only response. No Mrs. Bingley, no Drake, and no clothes. He silently cursed whoever took his clothes. But honestly, he thought, who on earth would want them? He hopped from foot to freezing foot. The late August air was chilly in the morning and the previous day's rain had made it more so. The gray, gloomy light being cast from the large gothic windows seemed to make the hall colder and sadder than it already was.  
  
"Child, what on earth are you doing out here in your nightclothes?!"  
  
Andrew jumped a foot in the air. Mrs. Bingley was standing behind him with a wicker basket and a huffy disposition. He hadn't heard her come up behind him; he had been looked at a painting of Sir Reginald, who had the biggest wart Andrew had ever seen.  
  
"What are you doing out of your bedroom? You'll catch your death, you will!" clucked Mrs. Bingley, ushering him back into his room, "Go on, back to your room! Quick, quick, quick!"  
  
"But Mrs. Bingley." protested Andrew as the short, plump woman threw a comforter over his shoulders, "I couldn't find you! And all my clothes were gone!"  
  
Andrew looked enquiringly at his nanny who was avoiding his eyes. She pulled Andrew's traveling clothes and coat from the wicker basket. Andrew looked from Mrs. Bingley, to the basket, then back the Mrs. Bingley. Traveling clothes?  
  
Andrew looked at her with the most piercing look that he could muster, "Why have you brought these to me?"  
  
"So you don't freeze, child! Really, Andrew, use your head," Mrs. Bingley said a little too quickly. Andrew continued to glare at her. She had never been very good at hiding things from him; she always buckled under pressure like a house of cards.  
"Don't give me that look, child, it gives me a chill right down my spine, it does! Your Auntie used to give me that - that same look."  
  
Mrs. Bingley quickly pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her misty eyes. Andrew looked uncomfortably at the floor and pulled his clothes out of the basket. He hadn't meant to make her cry. Feel guilty, yes, but not cry.  
  
"I'm sorry, Nanna," he said sheepishly.  
  
He was immediately sorry for his apology when Mrs. Bingley nearly broke several of his ribs in a large-armed hug.  
  
"Oh bless your sweet little soul, child!" she hiccoughed, "Thinkin' it was you that made me cry! Oh you were never anything but gentle, child and I pray to God that school won't change you!"  
  
"What school?!" shouted Andrew into Mrs. Bingley's stomach. A bell rang somewhere in the house. She released him and he inhaled for the first time in several minutes, massaging his ribs.  
  
"That'll be the cab. Get dressed, boy, don't dawdle!" ordered Mrs. Bingley as she bustled out of the room.  
  
School? Cab? Andrew dressed as quickly as he could and ran down the stairs, determined to get to the bottom of whatever was going on. He'd never been to a cab in his life. Every time his father had mentioned Andrew going away to a school, his Aunt Agatha had launched something large and heavy at his head, and often hit her mark. For an old, invalid lady she'd had pretty good aim.  
  
Andrew hurtled down the stairs and raced through the dining room, into the hall, and smack into his father, nearly knocking him over.  
  
"Idiot boy," muttered Captain Wallace, picking his son up and dusting him off, "Well, at least you're on time. We'd only just realized that all your clothes were packed."  
  
"Packed?" asked Andrew, following his father's quick footsteps out the door and over to the carriage.  
  
"Yes," the Captain replied, "We're going on a trip to London."  
  
"And you packed all of my clothes?" asked Andrew in fair disbelief.  
  
"No," he replied, "Mrs. Bingley packed all of your clothes and it was entirely unnecessary. That woman is senile."  
  
Andrew's heart leapt. He was going to London? With his father? His father had never taken him anywhere before, and now they were going to London, of all places! The Captain even seemed to be in a fair mood!  
  
"Why are we going to London?" asked Andrew. There had to be a catch, it was too good to be true. His Aunt had always warned him against things that were too good.  
  
"To see my lawyer," his father answered, not unkindly, "And to see some sites. Have you ever seen Madame Toussaud's Wax Museum, Andrew?"  
  
"Never," answered Andrew, grinning, not caring if it was "too good" anymore. To his unending astonishment, the Captain smiled back.  
  
"Well, then we must make a stop there, and Buckingham Palace of course."  
  
He and Andrew climbed into the cab and started on their way to the train station, Andrew inquiring about London and the Captain relating stories of old times. Andrew was nearly beside himself with joy at the train station. He'd never traveled by train before and had always wanted to. The train ride was even more thrilling than the cab ride down. So much, indeed, that Andrew passed out from sheer exhaustion and excitement on his first train ride to the city.  
  
* *  
*  
  
When Andrew woke up he had a startling sense of déjà vu. He was again snuggled in a warm bed in his nightclothes. He pressed his face hard into his pillow.  
  
"Let it be real," he prayed into it, "Please don't let it have been a dream!" He looked up. It wasn't his room! The walls had flowered wallpaper instead of his shady blue, and upholstered furniture and wardrobes resided in the room as well.  
  
The door creaked open and a cranky-looking woman in a funny sort of bonnet poked her head in.  
  
"Your father wants you downstairs in five minutes for breakfast. Look sharp!" she squawked, shutting the door. Andrew leapt out of bed and threw his clothes on.  
  
"This must be a boarding house," he said to himself. He was rather disappointed. His father usually required the best of the best wherever he went, and Andrew seriously doubted that this place was London's finest. He exited his room and appeared in a small hall where other doors exactly like his were facing each other, with indicating brass numbers. The wooden floor was worn, but clean, showing the weariness of centuries of feet. The faded paintings of flower pots and framings of old wood-cuts only enhanced the weight of age that seemed to seep through the peeling wallpaper. Andrew was fascinated by its antiquity, its mystery. Having never been exposed to anything older than Drake, this was actually quite fascinating.  
  
"He's here. You may serve now," said his father, who was already seated at the table. The bonnet-woman who was hovering by the captain's side glared at Andrew as if he was personally responsible for all her troubles, and slumped off to the kitchen.  
  
"Where are we?" asked Andrew, as he sat down at the table.  
  
"Proctor St. London, England, m'boy," said his father jovially taking his napkin and putting it on his lap.  
  
"Really?" said Andrew excitedly, "What shall we do first today?"  
  
"What would you like to do first?" asked the Captain. Andrew thought his jaw had to be hanging 'round about the knee area. Did his father actually ask him what he wanted to do? Someone must have replaced his father with a look alike during the night, for this wasn't the Captain Wallace he remembered.  
  
"The Wax Museum!" said Andrew quickly.  
  
"The Wax Museum it is!" said his father, "We shall be visiting my lawyer Mr. Applegate first, but then we'll have the afternoon to ourselves. Oh, and you should keep an eye out for Mme. Griswold. She keeps a clean house, of course, but I believe she bites."  
  
Andrew was so happy he could have been bitten by the bonnet-woman a thousand times without caring. His father actually wanted to do something with him!  
  
Mme. Griswold chose that moment to waddle back into the dinning room with a steaming bowl of god-knows-what. "It's five pounds a week for dinner, Captain."  
  
"Yes, Madame Griswold," said the captain smoothly, "You have been kind enough to mention that to me every ten minutes since I arrived. I assure you that I will remember. I cannot pay you upfront, as I told you, but I shall when I pay for the room at my departure. Are we quite clear?"  
  
Madame Griswold glared icily at the Captain, "Does he wet the bed?" she asked.  
  
"Who?" asked the Captain, looking around the small dining room.  
  
"The boy," said Mme. Griswold, staring right at Andrew, "Because if he does- "  
  
"I do NOT wet the bed!" exclaimed Andrew angrily. He was ten years old! He hadn't wet the bed in years! Did this woman think he was an infant or something?  
  
"I assure you that Andrew has been properly potty trained for quite some time," said the Captain lazily, "And I'll thank you to leave us in private while we dine, Madame."  
  
"Very good, Captain," said the land lady. As she walked away Andrew thought she looked rather like an overweight bulldog that couldn't quite support its own bulk on its stubby, fat legs. Wet the bed? Him?  
  
After Andrew had fumed into the vapors of his soup for a moment or two, he began to eat. He dropped his spoon and groused silently to himself. Stupid woman! He thought She has to make a decent meal, doesn't she. Can't even make fun of her properly.  
  
"Are you finished, Andrew?" asked the Captain. Andrew stared. His father had finished his meal in a few moments flat.  
  
"A trick you learn in the navy, m'boy," Captain Wallace said, "Eat your meal fast, or someone else will."  
  
Andrew tucked that little bit of information away in the same drawer of his brain that stored all of Mrs. Bingley's advice about washing properly and Drake's advice on betting on horses at the horse tracks. Needless to say, moths had eaten away at most of the information.  
  
A few minutes later, Andrew and Captain Wallace were out on the curb. The Captain stuck his hand out and, to Andrew's amazement, a handsome cab pulled right up to the curb where they were standing. A lean man with some worn, but clean middle class wear, hopped off of the top of the cab.  
  
"Evenin' govner'!" said the chap cheerfully, "Where can Oi take you gents today?"  
  
"144 Camden Road, please," said the Captain, "And be quick about it. If I am late for this meeting I shall hold you personally responsible."  
  
The cabby huffed, "Well if it ain't Jesus Chroist 'imself!" he said, opening the door of his handsome. The Captain climbed right in, but Andrew hesitated, looking at the cabby. It must be nice to be tall he thought, comparing his own stout stature to the lean and extremely tall cabby's. He sighed.  
  
"Wos the matter, eh?" said the cabby to Andrew, not unkindly.  
  
"Nothing," replied Andrew.  
  
"Nuffink, eh?" said the cabby, slapping some dust from his cap, "Well, since it's yer firs' roide on a handsome, 'ows about you sit wif me, eh?"  
  
"Alright!" said Andrew, "How did you know that it was my first time in a handsome?"  
  
"Whot?" said the cabby, looking startled, "Oh! Tha'. well, y'know, 'snot every day you see folks' eyes loight up when they see a cab, now is it? 'Op on up, Andrew."  
  
Andrew climbed up to the carriage seat. He was so high up! It was fantastic! He could see over the sea of stylish hats weaving in and about the streets. The cabby hopped up next to him.  
  
"Your favver says is' awriot. An' if its' a'wrioght wiv 'im, it's a'wrioight wiv me. And the name's Bert, boi the way. Bert Merdock at your service!" he announced as if he were the Prince of Wales, shaking Andrew's hand vigorously.  
  
"Is this a fun job, Bert?" asked Andrew as the handsome cab began to move, "You know, driving a cab?"  
  
"Certainly," said Bert, happily jogging the horses with the reins, "But moi firs' love always 'as been an' always will be chimney sweepin'."  
  
"But they're dirty, aren't they, chimneys?" asked Andrew, most of his attention drawn to the shops and other various activities on the streets of London.  
  
"Coal dust is bad for the lungs but good for the soul," quipped Bert, "An' Oi'll tell you sumfink else. There ain't nuffink loik the rooftops of London at nioght. It's a whole ovvuh world up there, Andrew."  
  
"But nevvah go up there if you ain't acquainted wiv the area. You can go for moiles just on rooftop, but you'd bettah know where you ah when you come down. A lad can get in a moity piece of trouble that way," said Bert, "And some othah advoice for your stay in good ol' London: Always tip the droivah."  
  
Andrew looked over. Bert was holding out his had expectantly with a mischievous sparkle in his eye. Andrew wasn't sure if he was joking or not. He pulled the only coin he had out of his pocket. It was an Indian- head penny that Drake had given him after he had visited a cousin in America. Andrew had no use for it. It couldn't be spent in England, so why not?  
  
"I wos jus' jokin' ya lad!" said Bert quickly, "You don' 'ave to-"  
  
"Just take it," said Andrew, shoving it into his hands, "I don't want it anyway. It's from America, you know."  
  
"Alroight," said Bert, flipping the coin into his pocket, "The next toime Oi see you, Oi'll give it back to ya."  
  
"Andrew, come down," said his father who was standing on the curb. Andrew turned with a start. He hadn't even noticed the cab had stopped.  
  
"Sorry," said Andrew, "I was just-"  
  
"Come, boy. We have much to take care of before the day is out," said the Captain.  
  
"Thank you, Bert. Shall I see you again?" asked Andrew as he stepped off the Cab, helped by his father.  
  
"I dare say we will, Andrew!" said Bert, "Toodaloo, gents!"  
  
Andrew waved goodbye and walked over to his father who was standing under a sign which read,  
  
The Law Offices of Messrs. Applegate and Orange. 


	3. The Offices of Messrs Applegate and Oran...

The Case of the Baker Street Irregular  
  
By Arctic Squirrel  
  
Well here I am finally! Here is the third installment of my story and good lord did it take forever to write! I do hope that my readers will find it satisfactory. :) And now to respond to some of those reviews (which I truly appreciate with all my heart so keep them coming!)  
  
Denny Barefoot: Thank you very much for your compliment. And don't worry about Bert... he's a lot more complicated than any Mary Poppins character.  
  
Juliet Norrington: Thanks for all of your support! And I will try to fit your colorful characters in there somewhere.  
  
Nako-Chan: A wise remark, Miss Chan. Is it Sherlock? Only time will tell.  
  
Marylinusca: I have absolutely NO idea which of Jane Austen's brothers I am related to. I just know I'm related to her somehow. And a new development... William the Conqueror is an ancestor of mine as well. Go figure. So if you will excuse me, I have to go conquer Ireland and then write a book about it.  
  
- A. Squirrel  
  
Chapter 3: The Offices of Messrs. Applegate and Orange  
  
Andrew crossed the threshold of the upstanding quarters of British law, belonging to Messrs. Applegate and Orange, with supreme curiosity. He'd never been to a place of work of any nature before. Their sign was perched elegantly above a great oak door, along the street of Tudoresque buildings: "Messrs. Applegate and Orange: Family Law." Andrew had no idea why they were there and was, quite frankly, curious.  
  
"Move along, boy," said the Captain, nudging the awe-struck Andrew inside the grand door. The inside of the entryway was oak like the door, but there were royal patterns carved into the wood of flowers and vines. The lobby had a dark red wallpaper, mahogany-colored lining, and dim lighting that sent off a signal somewhere in Andrew's brain making him feel sluggish and sleepy, as if he had just returned for the night after a long day instead of just coming in from a rather bright and cheery summer morning. There were some upholstered chairs and benches scattered about the burgundy-rugged area. They made Andrew sincerely hope that he would be sitting in an office with his father.  
  
His Aunt Agatha had warned him about the dangers of upholstered furniture saying, "They're like domesticated animals, Andrew. They look nice and tame, but if you press your weight on them for too long, they'll nip at your hindquarters. Is the nurse in? No? Make it a double vodka, Toad, I'm feeling rebellious today..."  
  
Andrew smiled to himself and tried to ignore the sharp pain of grief that invaded his rib cage. Captain Wallace began a conversation with the grumpy-looking receptionist with a very droopy gray mustache, which Andrew thought made the man look like a walrus. He interested himself instead with a painting on the wall opposite him. The picture on the wall was of people walking down a city street on a rainy day, only it was rather blurry. Andrew began to squint and cock his head from side to side, trying to make the picture come into focus. He entertained himself with this for a few minutes, discovering that if you turned your head to the left and squinted the people looked happy, and then to the right, they look sad.  
  
He was shocked out of his reverie by a sharp and somewhat painful grip on his shoulder, "What are you doing?" hissed the Captain coolly, not looking at Andrew, but around the room to see if anyone was observing his son's behavior.  
  
"Looking at the painting," answered Andrew, thoroughly confused.  
  
"Really?" asked the Captain in the same cool tone, "Because it looked to the gentlemen in this room as if you were trying to see through the wall."  
  
A few of the men within hearing distance chuckled. Andrew looked sheepishly at his feet and muttered, "I'm sorry, sir."  
  
The Captain sighed and rubbed his handsome face with his hands, "Well, I shall be in the office of Mr. Orange," Andrew looked up hopefully, "You shall stay in the lobby. There are plenty of chronicles to keep you interest. And do attempt to act respectfully.  
  
So he was to be confined to the room of the backside-biting chairs, was he? Andrew began to scuff the rug huffily with his foot, making patterns in the burgundy carpet.  
  
"Stop that!" ordered the Captain sharply, but not unkindly, as a balding, redheaded, stout fellow poked his head out of the door reading, "Mr. Orange."  
  
"Captain Charles Wallace?" he said in a gruff baritone that sounded as tired as the man looked. Another man turned as the name was called, but turned back to his paper almost immediately, looking embarrassed since he'd obviously almost answered to the wrong name.  
  
"I don't know how long I shall be in conference, Andrew, so do not become agitated if it takes a good while. Remember, top behavior, boy. We are no longer in the country," and with that the Captain turned on his heel and disappeared behind the door with Mr. Orange.  
  
Andrew looked around. Most of the seats were take, but there was a spot open on the bench next to the man who had accidentally turned around at the mention of his father's name. Andrew timidly took a seat next to the man, and Andrew noticed immediately that he was huge. He was not bulky, but very tall. Andrew guessed that if the man were standing, his head would only reach the man's midsection. He also guessed that the man was extremely well off by the rich fabric and cut of his clothes. Andrew had only ever seen a Duke (he couldn't remember from where, and quite frankly couldn't have cared less) wear a suit like the man sitting next to him.  
  
The man's black mustache covered part of a muscular face that glistened in the summer heat. The man's red tie was damp with sweat, and, Andrew noticed, many of the other men in the waiting room were equally as hot and uncomfortable. Andrew couldn't understand for the life of him why someone would wear so many layers of clothes in the summer time. Andrew himself was wearing mostly cotton, except for his wool hat, which itched terribly.  
  
Andrew's attention drew back to his sitting-partner and he spied a rather magnificent walking stick leaning against the middle-aged man's thigh. Even for a young boy, Andrew knew that it was quite a piece of craftsmanship. The body of it had to be ivory, and the handle was a gold lion's head with a roaring mouth. There was intricate detail in every sculpting curve of the walking stick that had him mesmerized. He couldn't take his eyes off of it. It was like something out of one of his Aunt's books about Asia or Africa.  
  
"It's a lovely piece of craftsmanship, isn't it?" asked the man. Andrew nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn't realized he was being watched. He felt the blood rise to his cheeks when he realized he must have been staring and how rude he must have looked.  
  
"I apologize, sir," said Andrew with all the dignity he could muster, "I did not mean to stare."  
  
"Haha!" laughed the man, his dark mustache lifting to reveal a set of long, thin teeth, "Go right ahead. Pretty things are meant to be stared at, and anyone who says otherwise is a damned hypocrite." He laughed bitterly at his own little joke, and Andrew's eyes wandered back to the ivory and gold walking stick. He wanted nothing more, puerile though it was, than to pick it up and play with it.  
  
Andrew's brain automatically began weaving tales of adventure and grandeur revolving around this stick, many of them involving elephants, and all of them involving gun fights. In a matter of minutes he had taken the unsuspecting man on adventures all over the continent of Africa.  
  
"This is a gift from my brother. Solid ivory stalk. The lion head is actually silver; only gold-plated," continued the man-with-the-walking- stick, "Rich man, he is. He invested in diamond mines in Africa." Andrew must have looked slightly disappointed at the lack of adventure, because the man continued.  
  
"My brother's not the adventurous type," he apologized, "I was always the one getting in to some kind of mischief. You see, I was a colonel in Her Majesty's army in India."  
  
Andrew's brain automatically switched from "stare" to "listen."  
  
"What's India like?" asked Andrew, forgetting all manners completely.  
  
"Hot!" laughed the Colonel, "The summer heat here is nothing to the winters there." (Andrew thought back to a day last July when his Aunt had instructed him to throw eggs at a few gentlemen that had come to tour the house. For what reason, Andrew had no idea, but the lure of throwing something slimy out of a window would be too much for any human. After this his father had ordered him to clean up the mess, and he'd discovered that the egg had fried right to the cobblestone.)  
  
"The summers are really that hot?" asked Andrew, amazed.  
  
"The heat melts the doorknobs right off the doors," said the Colonel, "And the uniforms right off the soldiers."  
  
He chuckled and slapped Andrew chummily on the back. The man did not realize the sheer force of this, but Andrew's cap flew right over his eyes and his entire body lurched forward.  
  
"So enough about me," said the Colonel (Andrew looked disappointed). "What brings a young lad like yourself to a lawyer's office on such a fine day? I should think most lads would be off playing rugby or cricket with their school chums on a day like this!"  
  
Andrew once again became entranced by his feet. As if it wasn't humiliating enough, was he going to have to admit to a complete stranger that he didn't have a single friend his age?  
  
"Oh, well... err, my father and I are just visiting from Yorkshire. My Auntie just died, but we decided to visit London anyway. This is my first trip," said Andrew, quickly changing the subject, "And he's going to take me to the wax museum later!"  
  
"Madame Toussaud's?" asked the Colonel, "It is a fine establishment. You'll like the Hall of Terrors. I always did. Surely he's taking you to the zoo as well?"  
  
"I don't know," said Andrew, honestly, "But I know he's going to take me to the sea. I've never seen it. He's a Captain for the Navy, and he says it's in the blood of all the Wallaces."  
  
"Wallaces?" asked the Colonel, starting, "Captain Wallace?"  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
"So you're his son?" he asked.  
  
"Yes"  
  
"The son of Captain Wallace?"  
  
"Yes  
  
"So Captain Wallace is your father?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Andrew nodded again. This man was either very slow or very deaf. Suddenly the Colonel burst into a very unsettling fit of laughter. Many of the people in the room began to stare and Andrew edged away from him. He wiped his eyes and looked at the frightened Andrew.  
  
"Sorry lad didn't mean to frighten you. It's just that the whole thing is so terribly funny..."  
  
Andrew certainly couldn't see what was so hysterical about his parentage, but decided that it would be better not to ask.  
  
"Colonel Moran?" said the voice of a thin, tall, bald man with nervous eyes.  
  
"I'm the fellow you want," said the colonel, standing up and turning to Andrew and extending his massive, muscular hand, "It was a pleasure to meet such a noble gentleman as yourself, Master Wallace."  
  
Andrew stood up and took the Colonel's hand, "And it is always an honor to meet an officer of Her Majesty's army," he said, reciting a line his father had taught him for formal events.  
  
Colonel Moran laughed, picked up his top hat, and walked through the door of the twitchy Mr. Applegate. The door to Mr. Orange's office flew open the moment Mr. Applegate's had closed. To Andrew's horror his father came storming out, carrying a large package of who-knows-what, and walking stiffly as if he had a back injury and it was paining him to perambulate in such a manner. Andrew shivered; he knew that walk. That walk meant that someone or something was about to be walloped by his father and he, Andrew, sincerely hoped it wasn't going to be him.  
  
"You haven't the right to call yourself a lawyer, Mr. Orange," hissed the Captain, obviously still trying to keep his rage as personal as possible and to shut out the room full of men who were trying not to look curious. His blonde hair was uncharacteristically out of place, and his usually handsome features were twisted with malice. His slim frame was slightly bent toward the door as if trying to shoot the words through Mr. Orange's heart like an arrow.  
  
"I am going to take that as a compliment toward my morality," said Mr. Orange, looking very angry and harassed. His red, partially bald plate was glistening with perspiration.  
  
"Your morality weakens your profession," the Captain whispered dangerously, but was becoming more nonchalant by the minute. Deducing that there was not going to be a physical fight of any kind, most of the men in the room began to lose interest, but Andrew was hanging, still, on their every word.  
  
"Crime is not a profession, my dear Captain Wallace," said Mr. Orange coolly. Andrew could tell that this man had dealt with much more difficult men (and probably more dangerous) than his father.  
  
"This is not a crime, sir," said the Captain, now completely gaining back his indifferent air and icy disposition, "How dare you insult a gentleman's honor?"  
  
"I would never insult a gentleman's honor, Captain Wallace," said Mr. Orange coolly, wiping his plait with an embroidered handkerchief, "But gentlemen of the truest nature are far and few between; I will not hesitate, however, to state most clearly that you are not one of them."  
  
Andrew's temper flared. Who was this man to accuse his father of crime and ungentlemanly behavior? He, Andrew, could not account for his father's honor, it was true, but he was in every way a gentleman.  
  
"That isn't true... sir," shouted Andrew, jumping up, "Father is a gentleman and a Captain of Her Majesty's Imperial Navy!"  
  
Both Mr. Orange and Captain Wallace looked shocked, as did many of the men in the room who were no longer pretending not to listen. Andrew's bravery began to fade as he looked around the room at the shocked (and some amused) faces. He'd never lost his temper before. Not like that. The room around him began to feel smaller and smaller, and the stares and silence of his audience more vast. Andrew caught his father's eye and, with a pang of guilt, recognized that familiar, ashamed expression that he'd given his father all-too-often.  
  
"Go to the corner and hail a hansom, Andrew," said the Captain with military-like authority. Andrew stood there. Just stood there. He couldn't help it. He'd ruined their trip to London, he was sure of it.  
  
"Do as I say or there will be consequences," hissed his father, looking at him through horridly impartial, cold eyes. Andrew hung his head and marched out of the dark lobby.  
  
In spite of himself, Andrew felt immediately better in the August sunshine and late-summer breeze. "London looks so much nicer in the day time," Andrew thought to himself, walking to the curb. Andrew began to look up and down the street for an already-beached cab. When that attempt failed he tried whistling (a trick that Drake had taught him several years ago). He succeeded in scaring the wits out of a passing flower girl and being scolded by a gentleman for making such vulgar noises in public. Finally he stepped on the curb and waved his arm in a beckoning fashion (copying the gentleman who had scolded him) and to his amazement, it worked. The hansom appeared right in front of where he was standing.  
  
"Where to?" asked the gruff cabby.  
  
"Err..." said Andrew, "I'm not quite sure, sir."  
  
"Sir?" said the cabby, his cap rising with his surprised eyebrows, "I never thought oi'd see the day when a young guv'ner would call me 'sir.'" The cabby continued to stare at Andrew for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders without concern and said, "Where to?"  
  
"Mme. Griswold's Boarding House, 561 Proctor St." said a voice behind Andrew. The Captain was standing behind him, "What are you waiting for boy? Get in." Andrew miserably climbed into the handsome as all his feelings of guilt and embarrassment rushed back. He fixed his stare out the window so he wouldn't have to look at his father, and hoped that his father would just pretend that he, Andrew, didn't exist as he had done on various other occasions.  
  
When the cab started moving, the Captain said, "I never wish to see a scene of that nature created by someone of my bloodline ever again. Do you understand?"  
  
So much for being invisible.  
  
"Yes," answered Andrew.  
  
"Yes what?"  
  
"Yes, Captain."  
  
* *  
* *  
  
Much of the cab ride was silent; Andrew staring out the window, watching the same streets go by as he had on the way up, and the Captain staring into the wall of the carriage, his mind obviously elsewhere. After a half hour or so, the Captain began to look out the window in quick, fidgety intervals. Andrew was alarmed, but had acquired the good sense not to disturb his father when his thoughts were otherwise occupied. But his father's erratic behavior did make him rather curious. After about five minutes of this queer behavior, Andrew was about to pop with anticipation and curiosity when Captain Wallace stuck his head out of the window and called to the driver.  
  
"To Madame Toussaud's Wax Museum, and an extra copper for you if you double your speed!"  
  
The hansom lurched around a corner and sped down a different street at top speed. Andrew's heart lifted, but he couldn't dare to hope. His father continued to fidget and look behind them through the window.  
  
"I thought we were going back to the--" Andrew dared, but his father cut him off suddenly.  
  
"Nonsense," said the Captain coolly, though his small actions betrayed his state of mind, "It is a crime to visit London and not its landmarks. I will not have any son of mine gossiped about because he has never been to Madame Toussaud's." But he didn't quite meet Andrew's eye, and his sudden change in mood only worried Andrew further.  
  
* * *  
  
Andrew had enjoyed the tip to the museum very much, but he would have enjoyed, but would have enjoyed it ten fold if his father had stopped looking over his shoulder every few minutes and muttering to himself. He would occasionally step in front of Andrew and trip him on purpose, but constantly insisted that he had done no such thing. The Captain had rushed him through most of the rooms, and barely gave him a chance to look the chamber of horrors, which he had been looking forward to seeing after his discussion with the Colonel.  
  
Dinner that night had been just as odd. The Captain had kept looking into the street through the curtains as if expecting to see something of interest on the street. Mme. Griswold and Andrew kept glancing at the captain, and then each other, silently agreeing that Captain Wallace had lost his mind. Andrew had spilled his soup all down his front when his father had jumped up like a firecracker and yelled, "BED!" at the top of his voice. Andrew had watched him sprint up the stairs with mixed feelings of curiosity and worry.  
  
Later that night Andrew had a dream that he was playing poker with Drake and Mrs. Bingley when the Jacks, Kings, and Queens jumped out of the cards and began to chase them down the dark corridors of the Allen Manor. Andrew had been fencing with the King of Spades (and had had the upper hand of the fight, too) when a firm shake awoke him.  
  
"Wassamatter?" slurred Andrew stupidly. He couldn't see anything. It was pitch black in his room and outside it, meaning it was either very late at night or very early in the morning.  
  
"Grab your trunk. We're leaving this instant," whispered his father's disembodied voice, "Put these on. Step lively now!"  
  
Andrew was too tired to argue or ask questions, so he threw on whatever his father had given to him, grabbed his trunk, and lugged it down the steps, letting it bump each one as he descended. There was a hansom waiting for them on the corner. Andrew was fast asleep the moment his head hit the cushion. 


End file.
